


a dream is a wish your heart makes

by theprez35 (mymetaphorwasdrawnfrombees)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Canon, THESE TWO., and this is the first thing i've written for fun in ten years!, but they're nonbinary!, cause i'm gonna ride this wave of inspiration as far as it will take me, i know they're genderless so i wasn't sure how to tag, i've never written fanfic before and it was quite enjoyable, ineffable husbands, it might count as fluff?, lowkey angst, since they use male pronouns, so be prepared for more where this came from!, so i defaulted to m/m, they kick started my creative spark, this is the first fic i've ever written so please be gentle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 12:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19946428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mymetaphorwasdrawnfrombees/pseuds/theprez35
Summary: Crowley has been having nightmares. Aziraphale notices one day, and miracles it away. He gets more than he bargained for.





	a dream is a wish your heart makes

**Author's Note:**

> SO I saw this comic by @purrple-catt on tumblr ([LINK](https://purrple-catt.tumblr.com/post/186223033805/im-right-and-i-should-say-it)) and I loved the premise so much. The fic basically wrote itself, tbh, and really got away from me! This is literally the first fanfic I've ever written, and i'm quite pleased with how it turned out, so thank you to @purrple-catt for being cool with me using your comic as inspiration! And I'd love to know what you think works and what doesn't, so long as you're nice about it;) I'm hoping to write a lot more, because this was really fun. Enjoy!

Ever since the apocalypse that wasn't, and all the ensuing chaos, Crowley was even more exhausted than usual. Demons don't require sleep, of course, but after the stunt he pulled to stop time, he was too exhausted to go a single day without taking a nap. 

Unfortunately, after the kidnapping and body swap incident, Crowley was also hypervigilant. He was uneasy with leaving Azirapahle alone too often, or for too long. Secretly, he worried that heaven would change their mind, try to come back for the angel, and throw him into hellfire again. Aziraphale had the same problem but in reverse, and had no problem with keeping Crowley close by. 

The only place Crowley felt safe enough to nap was in the bookshop, with its calming clutter and soothing scents and of course Aziraphale, angel, principality and personal protector. One day not too long after the averted apocalypse, Crowley dozed off as was now routine, sprawled on the sofa. 

Aziraphale smiled to himself. The sight of Crowley, curled in on himself, napping in a stream of sunlight creeping in through the shop window, gave him a funny feeling in his chest. A strange sense of comfort, and another feeling which the angel sensed was just out of reach of being named.

He knew too well how cold his serpentine friend could be, so he made his way over with slowly padding footsteps so as not to wake him. Aziraphale reached for the blanket carefully arranged on the back of the sofa, and draped it over him gently. He stood for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of Crowley’s chest. The feeling in his ribcage swelled up, and he bustled away before he became overwhelmed. 

Aziraphale made himself busy at his desk, organizing and reorganizing a stack of books, shuffling papers about, and consulting lists of books he sought to acquire (and already knew by heart). Every so often, perhaps more often than was strictly necessary, he glanced back to verify that Crowley was still there, still breathing faintly. Aziraphale, after catching himself staring for what was, likely, the ninth or tenth time in an hour and a half, gave up the pretense of pretending to read, and watched over the demon on his couch with quiet reflection. 

The past few weeks had very much disturbed Aziraphale’s equilibrium. The two of them had maintained a careful, slow, distant dance over the millennia. Crowley had always been Aziraphale’s only equal, his only true friend. But Aziraphale held back, always, just a piece of himself. 

He hoped that heaven was everything it promised itself to be: just, compassionate, merciful, good. But with the apocalypse, their hypocrisy was revealed. Aziraphale had been assigned a job: Protect the garden, protect the humans, these small and fragile creations that God loves so much. Keep them safe, watch them grow, try not to interfere. They were tempted, they made a choice (a choice that sometimes Aziraphale envied their ability to make), and they moved on. Still, Aziraphale watched over humanity. He guided them to their better natures, encouraged them to follow the path of light, of goodness. He thought that was what God, and by extension, heaven, wanted. But he was wrong. Heaven only wanted to prove they were superior. They didn’t know the humans like Aziraphale did, their capacity to always surprise and surpass even the angels. They have such short lives, such little power, and yet, they have the capacity to create substantial changes in the lives of those around them. Aziraphale loved humanity. He did his job, of course, but it was always more than that. And it seemed that this had always united him and Crowley. 

Crowley, always so cool and collected, until he wasn’t. With Crowley, Aziraphale had been afraid for so long. Afraid that they were fundamentally incompatible, playing with fire, risking too much. And now...they were all each other had. Each other, and humanity. Aziraphale had been unable to stop thinking about Crowley asking him to run away. Is that what he really wanted? Was he just desperate, clinging to hope? Surely those feelings had been fueled by fear, in the moment, and he didn’t mean them the way Aziraphale hoped. Crowley hadn’t mentioned anything about it in the weeks since, and Aziraphale was afraid to break the tenuous trust they had rebuilt. He stayed at Crowley’s flat that night after the apocalypse that wasn’t, in the guestroom. Crowley had given him space, and while they were never far from each other, neither of them had mentioned the conversation in the bandstand, or outside the bookshop. 

Had Aziraphale missed his chance? His chance for what, he wasn’t exactly sure. The feeling in his chest was rising again, and Aziraphale pressed his palm to his sternum, trying to ease some of the pressure beneath. 

Suddenly, jolting Aziraphale out of his reflective stupor, Crowley’s arm flung forward, and he gasped a string of unintelligible words. He hissed and thrashed on the couch. Alarmed, Aziraphale rose and rushed to his side. He knelt down next to Crowley and realized his eyes were still closed: he was dreaming. Crowley shouted abruptly, a tortured and strangled cry: “NO! Stop! Please, I’ll do anything.” On “anything”, Crowley’s voice broke, and he sounded completely desolate. 

Aziraphale’s heart twisted at the sound of his voice, so lonely, the same way he sounded at the bandstand when Aziraphale turned him away, refused to go with him to Alpha Centauri. When Aziraphale had told him “it’s over.” The angel felt his stomach turn in shame. 

They were still unsure exactly how much their respective head offices were monitoring them and their miracles, and had made a pact to not use unnecessary magic anymore, until they felt it was safe. They agreed to keep their heads down until they could figure it all out. Together. 

Weighing the potential consequences, he felt that stirring in his chest again, the urgency and necessity of it overwhelming any lingering fear of retribution. Aziraphale, watching Crowley twist and whisper in distress, felt it very necessary to do what he did next. He waved his hand past Crowley’s eyes as they twitched frantically under his eyelids, and whispered tenderly, “You will awake having had a dream about whatever you like best.” He felt the rush of his magic flow through his body and pass into Crowley’s agitated mind. 

Quickly, the demon relaxed. His face fell slack, and then the edges of his lips curled up in a smile, one which lacked the sarcastic bite that his expressions usually had. Aziraphale returned the smile and stood, turning to sit in his chair once more. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale halted, stunned into silence and afraid to move, anxious to hear anything else Crowley said. “Angel…” his voice was soft with tenderness, and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better, he would say the simple term of endearment was filled with a sense of longing. He slowly turned back to the couch. Crowley was still sleeping, and had curled into the blanket. His clenched fists had relaxed, and his face was peaceful. 

Aziraphale stood, frozen in place. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His mind raced.  
_Surely I misheard...no I couldn’t have, the words were as clear as day...perhaps he does...no, it doesn’t seem possible. It’s because we’re friends, we’re friends, we’re friends...we’re simply best friends and it’s because we have so much in common. We’ve known each other for six thousand years, surely that’s enough to justify liking someone that much...he certainly wouldn’t have hung around if he didn’t. But I’m the thing he most likes in the world? Me? What...what is the thing I like most in the world?_

_Crowley. Of course the feeling is mutual. How could I not feel the same?_ That same feeling from before roared up in his chest, and his head was swimming. He stared at the face of this beautiful fallen angel, his face flushing and heart pounding. _Oh but I feel more than that, truly. It’s more than liking, isn’t it?_ He suddenly recalled standing in the rubble of a church, some seventy years before, staring in wonderment after Crowley as he walked towards the Bentley. They had danced around each other for so long. _Where is the only place I’ve ever felt at home? Who is the only one who ever felt welcoming? Who can I be myself with, without fear?_

 _Crowley._

Aziraphale was done trying to please heaven. He was done with them. He was no longer afraid of being cast out, he realized, because he would never be the angel they expected him to be. Carving himself down to fit their little box for him nearly ended the world, and worse, nearly lost him his best friend. He was determined not to make the same mistake ever again. Now he was afraid of something else entirely. _What if I missed my chance?_ He resolved to not do anything until he knew more. Until he felt reasonably certain that he would not ruin this fragile, delicate truce they had mustered. He wouldn’t rush to any judgment, or make any rash decisions. Not yet. 

Crowley began to stir. “Aziraphale?” it was barely a whisper, on the cusp of awakening. He rolled over and rubbed his eyes, pushing himself up on one elbow. He looked down over the tartan spread across him, clutched in one hand. Crowley glanced across the room at Aziraphale, who was fluttering around his desk, his back to the demon. 

“Aziraphale?” louder, this time. The angel turned around suddenly, papers settling with a whisper in chaotic piles on his desk. “Thanks. For the blanket.” 

“Oh? Oh, of course, my dear, you just seemed so chilly. I’m off to make some tea, would you care for a cup?” His voice had the barest hint of a tremble to it, and Crowley only noticed it because he had known the angel for so long.

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale, one eyebrow cocked, and shook his head silently. Flushed, he dashed behind the shelves to fetch his tea. He could hear him in the back, clinking silverware and china, the kettle steaming, Aziraphale muttering under his breath too quietly to make out the words. Crowley slid his sunglasses back onto his face and folded up the tartan blanket, returning it to its previous position. When Aziraphle returned and settled into his chair, he couldn’t seem to get comfortable, first with one foot crossed over his knee, then back on the floor, then crossed behind the other. He brimmed with nervous energy, and set his teacup down on the desk, only to pick it up straightaway again. The back of his neck was still flushed. 

“You alright, angel? You seem nervous.” 

Aziraphale looked up at him with the gaze of a deer caught in the headlights of the Bentley- trapped, anxious and unable to move. “Oh no, nothing’s wrong- I mean, yes, I’m alright, thank you for asking!” The overly bright smile on his face betrayed his words, along with the stretched tone. “How did you sleep?” Aziraphale asked primly, taking a sip of tea and eyeing him over the rim of the cup. 

“Fine.” 

“No nightmares?” Aziraphale pressed.

Crowley glanced at him over the rims of his sunglasses. “No. Why do you ask?” Aziraphale met his gaze. Crowley felt almost as though Aziraphale could see through him. He never could lie to his angel. “Well...the dream didn’t start well, but it all ended fine, and what is it that they say? ‘All’s well that ends well?’ ’m fine, angel.” Aziraphale nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned back to his work. 

“Well, I’ll just be reading. Make yourself at home!” Crowley eyed him incredulously. Had that not been what he was doing for the past several weeks? Something was off, and he couldn’t tell why. He shrugged to himself, and moved to stroll about the shop.

Several days passed much in the same way as the several weeks previous. They kept their same routine. Early in the morning, Crowley and Aziraphale went for breakfast at the little cafe down the street from his shop, or near Crowley’s flat. They would go to the bookshop, where Aziraphale would work and Crowley would occupy himself with tending the plants, or organizing the growing record collection. They would go to lunch, occasionally take a walk round the park. They would return to the shop and Crowley would have his afternoon nap, usually punctuated by unintelligible sleeptalk. (On one memorable occasion, they had an entire conversation about the practicality of various gardening implements, of which Crowley had no recollection.) Early in the evening, they would close up shop and return to Crowley’s flat. Some days they stopped for dinner on the way, and some days they just picked something up before returning. Crowley would find something to watch on the telly, and Aziraphale would sometimes read. They would eventually retire to separate rooms and wake in the morning to do it again. Crowley didn’t tell Aziraphale this, but he would stay up late into the night, waiting, watching for the slightest hint that the angels had found them. Aziraphale never mentioned it to Crowley, but he often awoke early, and couldn’t fall back to sleep, stressed about the demons returning to drag Crowley back to hell, to his death. On occasion he could hear Crowley talking in his sleep through the closed door, yelling in his dreams. That felt too intrusive, though, to enter and wake him, or try to soothe him. He simply made sure coffee or tea was already made when Crowley awoke, and to be particularly kind to him, on those days. He kept a thermos of holy water in his briefcase at all times, just to be safe. Insurance.

In the days since Crowley awoke to an inexplicably flustered and befuddled Aziraphale, he regularly caught Aziraphale staring at him. He would suddenly fumble with a question, or more often blush and look away. Crowley wondered what was going on. Clearly something was bothering the angel, but he knew Aziraphale would tell him when the time was right. No sense in prodding him until he was ready. Every day, Crowley woke from his nap to find the tartan blanket draped over him. He took comfort in Aziraphale’s kindness, even if he wasn’t ready to let out the words for what plagued him yet.

About a week after that incident, Crowley was sitting on the couch, ready for his nap, and found that Aziraphale was still next to him. Crowley felt his eyelids drooping, and in a grumpy haze asked, “Angel, will you please move?” 

Aziraphale, without looking up from his book, replied, “Whatever for, dear?” 

“So I can nap?” said Crowley, unable to keep mild annoyance out of his tone.

“Oh, well, would you like to rest your head in my lap?” Aziraphale patted his thigh for emphasis. Crowley’s eyes widened, and his stomach dropped with a sudden plummeting sensation, but he nodded, and laid his head down.

Once Crowley settled on his back, with his cheek resting on Aziraphale’s leg, he drifted off to sleep without much effort. Aziraphale gazed down at him fondly, and set his book aside. He found himself drifting off as well, head nodding against the back of the sofa. After about an hour passed, napping in this way, Crowley began to stir fitfully, still asleep but obviously battling his own demons in his dreams. 

“No…no...no...no! Please…” Crowley murmured, a crease between his eyebrows and mouth drawn in a frown. Aziraphale smiled softly at him, and didn’t hesitate this time to miracle away the nightmare. With a wave and a whisper he felt the familiar swooping sensation of the miracle passing over. 

“You will awake having had a dream about whatever you love best.” Aziraphale made certain to specify the wording of his miracle very carefully. Crowley relaxed immediately, a tranquil look washing over him. He un-tensed and rolled into Aziraphale, laying a hand on his knee with uncharacteristic softness. Aziraphale leaned back against the couch again and tried to rest once more. He was mostly unsuccessful, and so he did not miss when Crowley softly whispered:

“Oh, Aziraphale…” The pure, sensual longing in his voice made the angel’s eyes widen in surprise, his mouth drop open in a gentle “o” shape, and his hand quickly rise to cover it. He smiled behind his hand and blushed furiously again. His experiment was successful. He was overwhelmed by a sense of calm. While he waited for Crowley to wake up, he gently brushed his flaming hair out of his face, combing his fingers through the strands in a way he often longed to do before, but had resisted. Now, aligned with neither heaven nor hell, but only each other and humanity, there was no reason to resist.

He lingered with one hand in Crowley’s hair, contentedly scratching his scalp, and one resting on his chest until the demon slowly roused from his sleep. He sighed contentedly. Then, he gasped, his eyes snapped open, and stared directly into the face of a now startled angel. Crowley immediately thrust himself up from the sofa and skidded across the room, pivoting to look at the angel as he placed his sunglasses back on his face. 

“ANgel,” he snarled, “What are you doing?”

“Merely brushing your hair out of your face, my dear.”

“Do you...are you...am I dreaming?” the wall of bravado which had flared in his eyes briefly fell.

“I apologize, Crowley, if I had known it would upset you I wouldn’t have touched you. I am very sorry. And no, you’re not dreaming. You’re very much awake.” Crowley’s face twisted again.

“Well I...upset maybe isn’t....why were you stroking my hair angel? Do you know that the humans…” his train of thought drifted off, and he only continued after Aziraphale showed no intention of picking it back up. “Well, the humans, they use it as...as a sign of int- affection.” Aziraphale cocked his head to the side. 

“I do know that, dear, I’ve been around them as long as you have. And I daresa-”

“Well why then? I thought hell was bad, now these bloody dreams, and you…” Crowley mumbled the rest of his sentence under his breath, but it included words that sounded suspiciously like “torture” and “tease.” He grasped his hair, and tugged the red locks in distress. His face was pained, eyebrows raised, mouth hanging open, tension written there, but also something else...something Aziraphale now recognized as desire, the usually careful mask slipping off ever-so-quickly. That aching feeling in his chest coiled tighter at the sight of desire reflected back at him.

Aziraphale rose from the couch and smoothed his waistcoat down as he walked toward Crowley with measured steps, never dropping his gaze. Crowley froze, mouth gaping, chest rising and falling with increasingly desperate, jagged breaths. As Aziraphale encroached into his personal space, he slowly, carefully raised his hands to the glasses. He paused, and with utmost tenderness, asked “may I?” Crowley nodded shortly, mouth snapping shut. 

“My dear, I have something important to tell you. And I hope you will allow me to finish before you bolt for the door.” Crowley nodded again, curt, apprehension written on his face as clearly as the words in the books lining the shelves surrounding them. In as calm a voice as he could muster with his heart fluttering in his chest, in such close proximity to Crowley, Aziraphale breathed: “I love you, Crowley."

Crowley didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His golden eyes stared, transfixed, widening at the look on the angel’s face. Resolute as the day he was assigned to guard the garden. Aziraphale didn’t back down.

“And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. I was afraid I had...missed my chance,” the angel took a deep breath, and continued. “But now I’m here, and I’m not leaving.” Crowley blinked, slowly. 

“You...you love me?” 

“Of course I do.” They stood there, several unbearable beats passing as Crowley’s face flashed with too many emotions to identify. “Are you going to say anything else?” Crowley swallowed, shook his head, and lifted his hands. It looked almost as though he was surrendering, preparing to back away, to abscond, the angel’s heart in his hands. Aziraphale felt a flicker of doubt- did he say the wrong thing? Then Crowley placed his hands delicately on either side of Aziraphale’s neck, brushing his jawline with his thumbs, and leaned forward so that their foreheads touched. 

Crowley closed his eyes and said breathlessly, “I love you too, angel.” Without another word, he leaned in to find Aziraphale already there, waiting, lips slightly parted. He brushed against them with his own, so light it could have been a feather from his wing, feeling electricity rush from the point where they touched through all his extremities. He felt the angel smile. “You thought you missed your chance, angel? I have loved you for six millennia...I couldn’t move on, not if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.” 

The pair gazed into each other’s eyes, Crowley grinning, disbelieving, and Aziraphale blushing sheepishly, twinkling with the brilliance of all the stars in the galaxy. He reached up and gently lay his hands atop Crowley’s, fingers splayed so as to twine together. 

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, faltered, and tried again. “What made you say it angel? Is this why you’ve been fretting about so nervously the past few days?” The angel affirmed with a nod. Crowley gasped, and jerked his head away suddenly, as though struck. “Did you...did you have something to do with my pleasant dreams today?” Aziraphale had the decency to look sheepish. “And the day when you started acting strange?” Now Aziraphale flushed to the tips of his ears. Crowley shook his head. “You really do have a streak of bastard in you, don’t you?” Aziraphale protested immediately. 

“Well my dear, you were having a nightmare! And I was worried about you! Don’t say it’s because of the miracle business, you’re worth a small miracle. In fact, you’re worth all the miracles in the world.” His voice broke on “world,” choked with affection.

Crowley, prepared to snap back with a retort, stopped short, the hint of a pleased grin creeping across his face. 

“Wait. How did you know I was having a nightmare?” 

“Oh...well, you talk in your sleep, my love.” Now it was Crowley’s turn to be embarrassed, but the soft tone and the attached endearment softened the blow.

“And what did I say?”

“At first? Nothing. You were thrashing about and moaned, you sounded distressed. I miracled your sleep, told you to dream of whatever you like best, and you said...well, you said ‘angel.’” Crowley groaned.

“So wait...is that why you confessed? Because you are what I like best?”

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure I even heard you properly the first time, so I opted to wait. We had such a lovely routine and I would’ve hated to disrupt it, or to make you uncomfortable. But then you had another nightmare, and I tried again. So when I told you to dream of what you loved best...well, my name was rather unmistakable. You were, after all, lying in my lap.”

“I admit, I am keen to do that part again,” Crowley offered. “But you cheated!”

“Are you truly upset with me, my dear?” 

Crowley pouted for a moment. “I...no, if it means I can do this.” And he leaned down to press their lips together once more, this time feeling the pressure, the ache, the want, coursing between them. “My love.”

Aziraphale pulled away from the embrace and grasped Crowley’s hand. He tugged him along back to the couch, and settled in comfortably. He held out his arm for Crowley to snuggle underneath, and sighed contentedly as he complied, pressing a lazy kiss onto the top of his head.

Six thousand years of waiting meant they both longed for more kisses, more holding, more tender sweet moments. But they had endless years behind, and endless years ahead. They savored the sensation, late afternoon sunlight streaming in and warming them in their nest on the sofa.

“Crowley, dear?”

“Mmhmmm?” 

“What were you dreaming about, exactly? Before I pulled you from your nightmares, I mean.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s eyes opened and glanced away furtively. “Well. You, angel. It was always you.” Aziraphale’s stomach dropped suddenly. He struggled to keep his voice even and unassuming.

“Oh, really? What was happening?”

“I. Uhhm. Well...” he glanced toward the ceiling, deliberating. When his eyes met Aziraphale's, Crowley's face softened. His voice was barely louder than a whisper, like the pages in Aziraphale’s books turning slowly in his hands. “I dreamed they found us. They dragged you away, tied me up. They…” The demon’s voice broke again, grief and rage trembling under the words. “They made me watch. They made me watch you die in hellfire, and I could do nothing to protect you. Over and over again.”

Aziraphale pulled him from where he lay, draped fluidly over the angel, and grasped him firmly by the sides of his face. “Oh my dear. Crowley, my love. I have those dreams too, watching helplessly as they take you from me.” Crowley’s eyes appeared suspiciously damp, and Aziraphale’s were brimming over. “But I’m here. We’re here. No one is taking us today. I would never let them take you from me, I would never give their holy water a chance.” Crowley saw the flicker of the avenging angel shadowed behind Aziraphale’s expression, and shivered with desire. He pressed his lips to the angel’s, grabbing his shoulders like a drowning man clinging to a life raft. Lips pressed, pulled back, tongues slipping from one mouth to the other, sudden and desperate and filled with the longing of millennia, the need for reassurance. Aziraphale’s hand slipped around Crowley’s waist.

“Angel...my angel...you gave me the sweetest dreams. I dreamed of you… doing this.” Crowley twisted his fingers into the angel's hair, and Aziraphale moaned in wonder as Crowley began trailing burning kisses down his throat. The fears of the armies of angels and demons finding Crowley dissolved under his ministrations, leaving stars in his eyes.

Heaven and hell could wait. They had time.


End file.
